


la sœur de guerre

by artoriusrex (jesusonaunicycle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Blind Character, Blood and Injury, Chaptered, Enjolras Has Feelings, Family Secrets, Friendship/Love, Genderfluid Character, Gore, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Near Future, Overthrowing a Government 101, POV Alternating, People Change People, Permanent Injury, Protective Grantaire, Revolutionaries, Secret Society, Slow Burn, Steampunk, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18445142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesusonaunicycle/pseuds/artoriusrex
Summary: A government on the brink of collapse. The French king is but a figurehead, a mouthpiece for a many-tentacled machine. Revolutionary groups have risen, and failed — stomped under boot heels and bloody money. Les Amis de l’ABC have not risen; they infiltrate from below.A string of murders, all signed with one name: the Huntsman. They have a particular set of skills, but no master. Above all: what is justice, and what is vengeance?A dystopia AU.





	la sœur de guerre

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! Now, this is my first dive into Les Mis (I'm a VERY LATE BLOOMER LMAO), so if you have any character trait issues, please feel free to shoot me a line! 100% full disclosure: I read the comments, but I am very bad at replying! So if you want a response, go ahead and follow/message me on tumblr @ capnsteeb!
> 
> Also, please bear in mind: this is a dystopia AU, and it WILL get graphic, so mind the tags!! I also will put individual chapter warnings in both note sections (top will be vague and non-spoilery, bottom will be specific). Thank you for reading this far and I hope you'll enjoy the updates as they come!! <3
> 
> **Chapter Warnings:** Discussion of blood, non-graphic character injury, discussion of dismemberment

_"Adversity makes men, and prosperity makes monsters."_

_—Victor Hugo_

**_Prologue_ **

 

The Musain was never this quiet. All Musichetta heard was the crackling of the fire, its light the only illumination in the room. The boys were scattered around the dining room. Sat at their usual table was the Leaders Three. Enjolras’s blonde head dipped low, his face obscured by shadow but his hair burnished gold by the fire; Combeferre, uncharacteristically disheveled, with his white linen shirt pushed up his brown forearms to reveal inky black tattoos, the sleeves stained with blood; Courfeyrac, his pixie face adorably scrunched as he balanced his cheek on his fist, quicksilver eyes half-mast. Across from them was Bahorel and Feuilly, leaning heavily on each other — Musichetta could see the white-knuckled grip they had on each others’ shirts. Jehan sat alone, curled over their skirts and scribbling wildly in their journal.

The only three missing were well accounted for, in her mind. Grantaire, her beloved customer, was in the alley behind the bar, trying to breathe through his panic. Bossuet and Joly were in the room upstairs, one lying prone with his leg badly broken.

A gentle hand pried the glass she’d been polishing from her vice grip. Musichetta looked up to see Eponine’s hard face, lines about her eyes and mouth from labor, her lips a firm line. Her dark brown eyes, though, were kind.

“You’ll break it, and we have enough blood on our hands,” Eponine said quietly, as to not disturb the eerie silence in the room. Still, Musichetta saw Jehan wince in their scribbling.

Musichetta nodded. Her head was still spinning, her hands clutching at emptiness. She settled for twisting her hands in her skirts. “Thank you.”

Eponine hummed, and guided her by the shoulders to the kitchen, behind the bar. There she saw Cosette and Marius, curled together in front of the log-burner. They both looked up when Eponine walked her in.

“Is there any news, ‘Chetta?” Cosette asked, her tear-stained face incandescent beneath the soot of the day. Her eyes were hard, gray bullets, and her pretty mouth was set firm. Beside her, Marius looked like a beaten woodland creature.

Unable to speak, Eponine swiftly spoke up for her. “No, for the hundredth time, Cosette. Combeferre says that when he wakes up in a few hours, they’ll know more.”

Cosette nodded, her face going carefully blank. Musichetta knew it was because if she allowed herself, she’d scream.

Musichetta found herself being pushed gently into a chair, and then suddenly there was a cup of tea in front of her. She sipped at the chipped porcelain gratefully, nodding a silent thank you to Eponine.

“Gavroche went to check on R,” Marius spoke, his tremulous voice catching on every other word. “He said that no one should be left alone, right now.”

“Smart boy,” Musichetta praised, her voice still breathy. She hated her weakness in that moment, and cleared her throat, ducking away to drink her tea.

Eponine’s hand landed heavily on her shoulder. “Gavroche knows this pain better than us, at this point,” she said. “Living on the streets has given him a new perspective on the phrase, hurry up and wait.” She smiled, a broken thing. Musichetta grasped her hand tight. The four of them lapsed into solemn silence.

A clatter roused them from their stupor, the sound of feet on stairs and chairs being thrown back from their tables. Musichetta herself jumped up, spilling the lukewarm contents of her tea, and burst through the door.

“He’s awake, he’s awake!” Bossuet cried, his face lined with tears. He leapt over the bar, miraculously not breaking anything, and swept her up in his arms. Musichetta’s eyes filled with tears, breathing him in — soot, sweat and blood, and beneath that Bossuet, and Joly, and _them._

She could hear them all, thundering up the stairs and shouting, but she focused on the beat of Bossuet’s heart, the rhythm of his breathing. She let herself cry silently, cradled by him, clutching the thin material of his shirt. _I thought I lost you, I thought I lost him, I can’t lose you both._

“Shh,” Bossuet murmured, petting her curls. She didn’t mind the tug. “I’ve got you, he’s alive, Chetta, he’s not going anywhere, and neither am I,” and she started to sob, big, heaving breaths into his chest.

After the worst subsided, she smacked his arm. At his yelp of surprise, she hit him again, and again, until he caught her hands.

“You don’t do that to me! Don’t go running off into a riot for laughs!” she shouted. His dark eyes were wide on her face, but a smile was upturning at the corners of his mouth. She hated how she loved that smile. It was the one where he found her incredibly endearing. “Are you listening to me, Lesgle? You do not go diving into a mob just because one blond-headed idiot says you have to!”

“Hey, leave Enjolras out of this,” he said, struggling not to laugh. “He didn’t tell me to do anything. Besides, I was only going after Joly.”

“Then I’ll give him the same lecture once he’s able to stand! Christ,” she spat, but she launched into his arms again, feeling him laugh beneath her head.

A polite cough sounded from in front of the bar, and Musichetta looked over Bossuet’s shoulder to see a contrite-looking Enjolras. His face was also gray with soot, and had tear-tracks just like the rest of them. He scuffed the bottom of his boot against the grain of the wood like a guilty child.

“You,” she said, pointing at him while still not letting go of Bossuet, “come here.” He did so, without protest, his head already ducked like he was expecting a slap.

Instead of slapping him, she grabbed him roughly by the shirt and crushed him into the embrace, growling into his hair, “I can’t believe you all scared me like that. You’re a carcass, monsieur, a dead man walking, I’m surprised Combeferre hasn’t eviscerated you yet,” she rambled, feeling Bossuet laugh and Enjolras shake with silent tears. She pressed a firm kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras breathed, and she really did hit him then. Stung, he squeaked, “Ow!” to which Musichetta hit him a second time.

“Do not be sorry for grown men who make their own decisions. I’m just scared.”

“I know.” Enjolras mumbled and curled back into their hug. Bossuet’s face was shining.

“He’s lucid,” Enjolras said after extricating himself from the embrace. His blue eyes were red-rimmed, but he still looked remarkably put together for such a rampant disaster. “Combeferre says he should be fine, but for now he’s under bed rest for another six weeks.”

“Six weeks just for rest,” Musichetta murmured, numbers flying through her brain. “When will he be able to walk again?”

Enjolras looked perturbed, his brows knit as he said, “Ten weeks, at maximum. But he’ll need a cane, or crutches, perhaps for the rest of his life.”

Bossuet’s hand slipped into hers, and she gripped it hard. “Okay.”

“Can we see him?” Bossuet asked, as if he hadn’t been in the room with Joly for hours already.

Enjolras nodded, a small smile on his face. “Everyone’s in there with him now, but I’m sure they’ll clear out once you get up there. I’m sure you’ll want to be alone for a while.”

“She’ll just yell at us both,” Bossuet said cheerily, but Musichetta could see the strain behind his eyes. Being alone with their missing link is the only remedy.

Still, Musichetta sniffed, and tugged Bossuet behind her up the stairs, saying, “It’s only what you both deserve.” No one would ever tell her differently.

Enjolras was right. All eleven of the Amis were packed into the small boarding room; Combeferre making notes on the bedside table, Courfeyrac subtly clutching his hand; Eponine, Cosette and Marius at the foot of the bed, grinning; Bahorel and Feuilly by the window jeering at Joly; Jehan laying beside Joly, their skirts halfway up their thighs and generally being scandalous, Grantaire sitting next to them, pale and sweaty but with a smirk and a cheerful Gavroche in his lap.

When they saw them come in, immediately the excuses began flying. Bahorel and Feuilly were out first, Bahorel claiming thirst and just _needing_ Feuilly to come with him. Marius, Cosette and Eponine didn’t even give an excuse, they just walked out with Eponine’s eyebrows jumping madly. Jehan slipped out of bed and righted their skirts, whisking out with a kiss on their cheeks. Courfeyrac got Gavroche and told them it was past the boy’s bedtime, and Grantaire gave them both a long, wine-scented hug, but he was given double cheek kisses and a promise of being able to come back later. Finally, Combeferre left, smiling benevolently as he instructed them, “No vigorous activity, and he’ll be in a lot of pain for the next couple of days, so be gentle.”

Finally, they were alone. Musichetta saw Joly lying there, pale and with a strain in his smile. His black hair was matted close to his skull, his green eyes were watery and unfocused with whatever pain medicine Combeferre had put him on. His right leg was heavily bandaged. She saw blood on the sheets, kicked down to the foot of the bed.

“Hello, darlings,” Joly croaked, and Musichetta let out a wild sob, nearly pouncing onto the bed.

“Careful, dear,” Bossuet chided from nearby, but Musichetta had Joly’s face in her hands and was pressing fevered kisses all over his face.

“You idiot! You absolute — fucking idiot, I swear to all that is holy — I’ll never let you out of my sight again, you fucking—”

Joly laughed between kisses, weakly pressing up into her hands and mouth. “Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he said, and, “Oh, it’s alright, Combeferre fixed me.”

It was so uncharacteristic of him, Musichetta sobbed again. The bed dipped next to her, and Bossuet was sliding in next to her, his hand finding Joly’s. He kissed Joly quickly, while Musichetta was focused on the clean parts of Joly’s neck.

They curled up that way, Musichetta rambling until her voice left her, her hands still roaming and her lips still kissing. Bossuet curled up on Joly’s other side, holding both of them to him, murmuring soothing nothings. Joly, now content, complained quietly about the pain. He soon fell asleep, between the two people in the world he loved most of all.

 

* * *

 

 

The man’s name was Brujon. An uncommon name — it was easy to find him. A man with friends in high places could still be bought out, with enough money and the right amount of _incentive._ And what she lacked in money, she made up for with incentive in spades.

He was nimble, Brujon. Quick enough on his feet to be a challenge, but she’d gotten him on a bad night. He’d been at the Corinth, a larger establishment in the city, being a general nuisance and knave. He’d just gotten paid, he’d told her, grinning with yellowed, tobacco-stained teeth. A very big job. She should feel lucky to have caught his eye.

Brujon was nimble, but he was drunk, and stupid with it. He tripped over his own feet and uneven cobblestones. He’d only dodged one of her knives by pure luck. She’d had time to retrieve the knife and still corner the man in a dank, dark alley.

He stank of piss and alcohol. His bald head sweat, and his shirt was yellow with perspiration. He cowered before her, a large man reduced to a whimpering mess. She allowed herself to smile.

“You had a job. You said you’d fulfilled it.” It wasn’t a question, but he answered, trembling,

“Yes! Yes. Kill the skinny runt, make an example out of—” He cut off with a screech, her having thrown one of her knives at him and missing just right of his shoulder.

“Who’s your employer?” she asked, circling him.

“Fuck, you crazy cunt, I don’t know!” Another knife, this time hitting its target; the meat of his left shoulder. He cried out in pain, and she strode over, delivering a kick to his stomach with a sickening _thud._ He groaned, and she asked again:

“Who’s your employer, Brujon?”

He gasped, tears escaping his eyes. “God, I swear to you, I don’t know their name! I know he’s got money, and that’s all I care about — _fuck_!”

The reverberation from the hit lit her shoulder up, electric pricks of power. “If you don’t know who they are then how are you getting the money?”

Brujon shook, crying. “I meet with him at the Corinth. He — He’s a tall guy, skinny. Got money, he’s always dressed up. Goes by Montparnasse.”

_Patron-Minette._ “You’ve met with him recently, then. The Corinth?”

“No, no, not this time. Some run-down bar on the other side of town. The Musain. Two nights ago.”

Her lip curled. It would be like Montparnasse, the arrogant fuck, to play at patronage at the Musain after mortally wounding one of the Amis. Or, at least, helping to bankroll the project. They’d all moved to different apartments by then, a week after the incident. Montparnasse was probably biding his time, waiting for them all to leave so he could gloat.

“And how do you reach him, Brujon?” she asked, her voice dropping.

Brujon shook his head wildly, clutching his wounded shoulder. “I don’t contact him, he finds me if he needs me. Usually it’s once a month, at the Corinth.”

_Shit. Does he have him watched?_ She didn’t doubt it. Patron-Minette was the most renowned gang in town, nearly as notorious as the Brotherhood. They’d been getting bankrolled by some pretty wealthy people recently.

The problem was, Patron-Minette and the Amis had worked together before, when their interests had intersected. Montparnasse was an arrogant fuck, but not an idiot. Whoever had convinced him to go against his loyalties must have had a lot of cash.

In the meantime, though. “Thank you, Brujon. You’ve been of great service.”

Brujon smiled, shaky and watery. “Thank you. Th-Thank you, I—”

He never got to finish his sentence, though the thanks was _greatly_ appreciated.

 

* * *

 

It was early morning at the Corinth, her second job, and Musichetta knew she was going to struggle to unlock the front door. She’d gotten very little sleep the night previous; her boys had had her up most of the night, Bossuet with his charming giggles and Joly with his endless new puns. They’d made the most of the night, she thought with a blush, though Joly was still not cleared for _vigorous activity,_ as Combeferre called it. So she was not paying attention to the crowd of people out front of the bar, trying to push through, when she finally tuned in enough to hear someone scream: _“My God!”_

There was blood at the front doors, blackened by time. A pool of it, partially congealed. She pushed past the few stragglers that dared move close, gasping, and nearly vomited at the sight she saw before her.

A man’s head, cruelly impaled on a spike and planted into the cobblestones at her front door. He was bald, but young, his mouth open in a silent scream. His tongue and his eyes had been cut out.

Nailed into the pike was a letter, written in elegant red script: _Beware the small and the weak. We are not what we seem. The Huntsman._

A chill ran over her body. She stood there for an indeterminate amount of time, until the police had her moved, swept away, escorted to the jail to answer questions. They believed that she hadn’t seen anything since that morning. They released her, after hours of being held at the station, with just enough time for her to run to her shift at the Musain.

The words, _beware the small and the weak,_ ran through her head as she approached the café. She remembered what Joly said, quietly, to her the night he came home.

_“He’d told me I was weak,”_ he’d said, his face pressed into her neck. _“He said I was small, and weak, and I was the one who needed to die first.”_

When she walked in, she was in a daze. She hadn’t thought about sending word to her partners; she was often gone from early morning to late night. They wouldn't think anything was amiss.

The Musain was cheerful, bedecked in warm golds and oranges from the fire and polished wood. There was a smattering of locals seated at the bar, and a few patrons eating their late meal. The back room’s door was closed against listening ears.

Mind still whirling, she opened the door where the Amis were in full swing. Enjolras was pontificating, _“Their blood money goes as far as to silence the people, to light the fires that keep them scared,”_ stood on his chair. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were canvassing the room. As she stood there, she saw Grantaire look up, mouth opening in greeting, when he saw her expression.

“Chetta?” he asked, standing quickly. His eyes were wide, brows knit. His outburst had silenced Enjolras, who was now staring at her, along with everyone else in the room. “Are you okay?”

“A man was murdered outside the Corinth. His head was on a pike.” The room filled with noise. Grantaire was holding her, Bahorel was shouting, Enjolras had climbed down off his perch and was making his way toward her. Jehan screeched for everyone to be quiet, and Musichetta spoke into the sudden silence: “I think he was the one who hurt Joly.”

“How do you know?” Combeferre asked from close by, his brown eyes calm and grounding.

She swallowed, started, “J-Joly, he said… He said the man told him he was small, and weak. That he was supposed to die first.” Someone made an angry sound, and R’s hands tightened on her waist. “The Huntsman left a letter. It said… to beware the small and the weak. That they’re more than they seem.”

“Musichetta,” Enjolras said, drawing her attention away from Combeferre’s paling face. His expression was intent as he asked, “Have you told any of this to the police?”

“No, I didn’t think of it until after I’d left. Do you think — the Huntsman did this for Joly?” she asked, feeling ridiculous, but the thought wouldn’t leave her be. Enjolras suddenly looked thoughtful.

_“Enough_ of that,” Grantaire barked, his face murderous. He was glaring at Enjolras, lip curled, before turning to her with a softer expression. “We don’t need to think about that right now. I’m going to walk you home, Chetta, okay? We’ll talk about it _later.”_ He emphasized, and Musichetta heard Enjolras’s mouth click shut.

Grantaire drew her away, into the dining room, as noise began to fill the back room again. Everyone was talking, but she heard Bahorel’s above the rest: _“The Huntsman, the rogue that the Brotherhood was searching for?”_

“Don’t listen to them right now,” Grantaire murmured in her ear, his arm tight around her shoulders. “They’re not thinking straight, as usual.”

“For what it’s worth,” Musichetta said, gripping his hand, “thank you.”

Grantaire squeezed back, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. “You’d have done it for me,” he said, and led her out into the streets.

Neither, it seemed, had seen the figure in the dark, sitting at a corner table in the Musain. They watched them go, and then turned their attention onto the back room, whose door was closing swiftly. The only thing seen beneath their hood was shadow.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Chapter warnings:** Joly's leg is broken badly, but the breaking of is not discussed; bloody injury of side character; Musichetta finds the head of a side character impaled at the door of the Corinth
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! Updates should (should being the operative word) be forthcoming!! Again, if any concerns or comments require discussion, don't just leave a comment!! _Please_ go ahead and message me on tumblr (@capnsteeb) and I would love to chat!!!


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